Impeccable Aim
by poetrygirl22
Summary: Aramis never misses when he shoots. About the one time he did, and the consequences. Porthos still has that scar on his side. He always will have. Everyone has forgiven Aramis. Every one but the man himself.


**Impeccable Aim**

**I don't own the Musketeers.**

**Reviews inspire me to write.**

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It had all gone wrong.

Aramis had the best aim.

The musket was an extension of his arm.

He never missed.

Ever.

That was what they had been relying on.

That was the easiest part of the plan.

The bit that couldn't possibly go wrong.

It had.

Everything else had worked out fine.

They had stormed into a crowded tavern.

Porthos was already in there undercover.

No one had been injured.

Then it was just one shot.

A shot that punctured clean through a pig's bladder full of blood tied to Porthos's side.

Porthos would pretend to be dead.

They would cart him away.

They would report what they had learned about the English spies to Treville.

Everyone in that town would think Porthos was dead.

It wasn't complicated.

They had done it before.

And Aramis had raised his musket.

He had fired for his side.

Someone barged into him.

But the musketball hit the right place.

Aramis was sure of it.

Porthos had let out a howl of pain and staggered off into the trees.

And they had followed after.

And Porthos wouldn't appear when called.

Darkness descended.

They still hadn't found their friend.

They had started getting worried.

Then d'Artagnan had tripped over.

He had fallen over a foot.

It belonged to Porthos.

He was slumped against a tree, impossibly pale.

His murmurs were quiet and slurred.

His left side was soaked in crimson.

Aramis knelt down beside him.

He was bleeding.

Bleeding.

Aramis never misses.

This time he had.

They had carried him into a coach, sped to an inn. The rough bumbs made him whimper in pain. They carried him into an inn. He wouldn't stop bleeding. They lay him on a table, they lit candles for light. They poured wine into his unresisting mouth, then on the wound. Aramis stitched up the wound. The musketball had sliced down his side, narrowly missing half a dozen vital organs. It could have so easily killed him. He could have died. Died from a musketball from his gun.

Aramis sewed him up. It was deep and it was long. It wouldn't heal easily. He would be bedridden. He hated that. Everything seemed unconnected, like he was a ghost flying over and watching what had happened. Athos sat by him next to Porthos's bed in silence. D'Artagnan tried to convince him it wasn't his fault. It didn't work. He had shot his brother. He could have killed his brother. He had caused his best friend indescribable agony. He should feel guilty. He didn't deserve relief. He deserved to feel pain for what he did.

Porthos slipped into fever's vice like grip. He writhed and yelled, moaning and groaning in pain. Aramis sat by him. He didn't sleep. His nightmares hovered just outside his consciousness, ready to leap down and eat him alive the second he closed his eyes. So he didn't. He was coward. He couldn't face his own mind. He put another damp towel on Porthos's forehead. He changed the bandages on his side. He wept in secret, when the others had fallen asleep. Three days Porthos did not wake. The physician had said he would never wake up. He said they should start measuring him for a coffin. Porthos had finally slipped out of the fever, but it seemed better then, knowing he was alive. Knowing he was alive and fighting, rather than him just lying there.

Then Porthos opened his eyes. He whimpered in agony, every move sending a twinge of pain through his side. Aramis gave him drink to dull the pain, made him the finest soup he could muster, changed the bandages. Porthos swam in and out of consciousness, when he was awake he barely moved and didn't speak. The physician visited him again. He just shook his head. He was pushed out the door.

"You look terrible." The words were rasping and weak, and triggered a coughing fit that sent white, hot agony down his side. Aramis saw his face contort with pain, but through all this his eyes were alert. His pupils searched Aramis's face, his mouth turning into a scowl. "Eat." His voice was still weak, but it was clearly an order. Aramis ate the bread and meat d'Artagnan handed him, then spooned Porthos's broth into the other man's mouth. He looked tired and weak, but he was alive, and didn't seem to be blaming him for his injury, something that sent a surge of relief through Aramis. "Sleep." The command was simple, and for the first time in five days Aramis let his eyes close and fall deep asleep.

When Athos walked in to find the men sleeping he let a smile turn the corners of his mouth. He had worried about Aramis, but it seemed Porthos had finally made him stop his self-induced exhaustion. Aramis had shot Porthos. Athos knew enough about the body that that shot could've so easily killed his large friend. The thought sent a shiver of cold down his spine. If Porthos had died it would have killed Aramis as well, and he could not think of life without those stupid idiots. Without his stupid idiots.

Porthos grew stronger, until he could ride again. The horses moved at a walk back, any more would be at risk of aggravating his injury. Porthos filled the journey with smiles and jokes, doing his best to lighten the mood. Aramis rode directly behind him, as close as humanly possible to the other man. He did not smile. He did not joke. Porthos did his best to hide the pain, but his face still contorted whenever he got down from his horse. Aramis fussed over him constantly, forbidding him from doing anything but cooking. And he only allowed that because everyone else's was inedible, especially Athos' Porthos could cook like he could fight. Extremely well with lots of precision. D'Artagnan was once forced to collect firewood long into the night for the unforgivable crime of 'letting the broth boil for too long'.

They soon returned to Paris, and it was a mercy to sleep in their own beds again. Athos and d'Artagnan headed straight to the nearest tavern, but the lack of their friends soon drove the latter away. Porthos was drinking in bed, having been forbidden to get up unless absolutely necessary, and Aramis was beside Porthos, making sure he didn't get up.

The next morning they stood, or sat, in front of Captain Treville's desk. Porthos had insisted he be present, so sat on a chair. Aramis hovered next to him, clinging onto the back of the chair as if it was a life support. Athos stood beside them, looking stoically forward, ignoring his pounding hangover. D'Artagnan stood beside Athos, glancing at Porthos and Aramis every few seconds. Treville ran a hand through his hair.

It had been a successful mission. That's all he had been told. This didn't yell successful. Porthos was injured, Aramis looked dreadful and he was pretty sure d'Artagnan was rocking. His mood did not improve when he was told what had happened. Aramis had shot Porthos. In the side. This was not good. Porthos had obviously got over it, putting a supportive hand over Aramis' arm when the Musketeer had explained what had happened. Aramis would not for a ling time yet.

The nightmares still return to him sometimes. Between everything else. He still wakes up with a heavy heart for what he did. The scar had long since faded, now a mere line. But Aramis will never forget. None of them will.


End file.
